No More than Dreams
by Zeff N Company
Summary: In a small bookshop on a backwater world, Leon came to find answers, but the man he speaks with has none to give.


**_Inspired by _**Sukunami**_ (aka _**terrayndian_** on deviantArt); took me a while to actually find her website **Title Pending **and read some of her works, but there is something deep and tragically beautiful in her writing. **__**So...if you're not bothered by yaoi (or mpreg, for the matter), then I recommend dropping by her dA profile for the link.**_

* * *

It had not bothered him this much before. Sure, he _did_ experience many sleepless nights during the process of writing it, but never had he felt as unsettled as he did now. _Fated Children_ was the pride of his career - the greatest achievement he ever made as a novelist. Yet here, right here in this signing session, it felt like his greatest offense.

There had been the usual fans, all liberal with their praises about the books they offered for his pen before taking their leave from the shop. There had been some who were new to his work, but were still fascinated, and had come to him brimming with questions about the context; most of this crowd had also requested his signature in the end of the patient explanations. There had been yet more - hecklers who termed themselves "critics" - who mocked the way he had ended the book; he could not fault any of them, for he had disliked that ending as much as they voiced.

Then there had been _them_...

They were not really special people - did not hail from a special faction or something of the like - but there was something about them. When they came, he at first did not even notice them, but that was when they picked up a copy of his novel to browse the contents out of innocent curiosity. There would be this suddenly flash over their eyes, and they would immediately turn to stare right at him - right _through_ him.

It was unnerving, but when he met their unrelenting gazes, he felt himself chilled to the core - it was as though he had penned down a lost revelation, and they were seeking out any remnant knowledge that he withheld. Whatever it was they sought in his soul, he felt himself remorseful when they realized it was not there. None of them found anything beyond a creative mind, and left without speaking to him; the rewards they reaped were no more than the purchased novel in their hands, and the pained confusion in their countenance.

And then one of them had to stand out - one had to be even more different from this group of already unique visitors. This one was a tall brunet that looked around his own age bracket, with much scarring upon him that suggested a life of battle. When he moved, he carried himself like a wizened predator, but held the air of a tired old man that sought respite.

This man had shown himself when the crowds were just thinning out, and was thus easy to spot. Instead of picking his way through the "New Releases" section as all others had done, he had come right up to the table. Indeed, he already had a copy - had read every word from back to back, if the state of the novel meant anything. He had a purpose; he had come here for a confrontation.

At last, they were facing each other, this man standing while he remained sitting. The strange lion's head at the end of a chain pendant seemed to glow in the cool shadows between them as it spun on its pivot, but he found himself forced to look away from it and back up at blue eyes that were illuminated in the same eerie silver light.

And that was when the man spoke to him, in a voice that was commanding, quiet, yet so vulnerable all at once:

"Are you... Laguna Loire?"

He surprised himself when he was able to nod, smile and answer back with his usual flair - or perhaps it was part of reflex now, as was the sudden and annoying cramp in his leg.

"That I am. Would you like me to sign that?"

He had held out his hand in offering, but the man did not relinquish the book from his vice grip. The already white knuckles seemed to impossibly pale further as the man pressed on with yet another question:

"How did you write this? _...why_?"

And that was what sent his poor seized-up leg on a field day. There was the one - no, _two_ questions that he hoped he would not have to answer. The two hardest questions ever to be dropped in his lap...simply because he did not have the answers. The man was still waiting, and so he could only speak honestly.

"I don't know." If there had been anything akin to hope in those eyes, it fell away to nothing as he continued. "Everything I wrote there...there was no research, really. I know that way of doing things is just silly and suicidal for one of my profession, but...it just happened. Every detail, every word, it was all just _there_, and it burned in my head until I got it down. And once I had the manuscript sent for print...it just faded away."

"...so you don't remember."

It was too vague a sentence; logically, he should have probed for clarification. Yet he heard the defeated voice, and he _knew_ what the other was saying. All he could do was lower his gaze and shake his head. "It was nothing but a long, tragic dream... I'm sorry."

"So why didn't you change it?"

He looked up again, up at the face that had suddenly been left to a void of any expression, and that worn copy of _Fated Children_ was held up as further emphasis was given: "As a professional, you must have disliked the cliché manner in which you ended this... why didn't you change it?"

Now here was a question he _could_ answer, and he did:

"You're right; I think the ending is too trite. To conclude such an epic adventure with Leander and Hero kissing on a balcony... I _knew_ I could do more for it - do better than that...but at the same time, I just _couldn't_. Not like I didn't try, but...every time I attempted to follow up from there, I felt almost guilty.

"It was like Leander had been a real person - it was like every last one of those characters had been real...been _alive_...and I was insulting their memory by changing even a single letter in the history that is this book."

For a while, the man before him said nothing, only looking at the book and at her contents. He opened his mouth, to say something - anything - when their eyes met one more time. And right there, as silver-tinted blue ice pierced right into his own green orbs, he realized he could see it all again...

He could see the brilliant clash between Leander and Cain that gave them their matching marks in streams of blood, and he could see the stoic young protagonist facing the fire dragon to pass an initiation into the special forces.

He could see once more the teaming of Leander, Cain, and the hyperactive Hardy, as much as he saw Cain's disgrace following their final trials. He saw Leander rise as a leader, and then fall as a captive, tortured for information he did not know.

He saw the devotion between Leander and Hero - so much like the devotion between the legendary beings they were named after - that knew no obstacles, surviving even the greatest calamity of all.

And then he saw something that had not plagued him before, while he was writing: he saw Leander speak with Richard - the father he had never known - in the fields behind a small cottage that had housed Leander and five other lost children. Words were passed between them - words that failed to reach his own ears - and then Leander turned away.

It was a moment that seized his chest and _wrenched_ at his heart, and as Richard - though regretful - at last departed, the young man with his tragic past spoke some final words into the air...

"...goodbye, Dad."

Those two words that were definitely real shook him from his reverie. He blinked then, looking up at where the other man should have been, but that man was gone. All that was left was the well-used novel with its frayed edges, and when he turned the cover, he found there was something scrawled in ink:

_**The son chose not to speak, and now the father will no longer hear him.**_

For a moment, he mused that it was the man's take on Leander...and then something else flew through his mind so blindingly quick he nearly missed it. So swiftly...yet so strikingly; he straightened at once as he blanched.

"... _Squall_?"

"Who?" And he turned to find his dark-skinned confidant looking his way, his concern evident as he probed further: "...alright there, Laguna?"

"Kiros, watch the table."

With the blurted request, he flew from the chair and dashed out of the shop, his friend's calls for an explanation going unheard. He promptly crashed heavily against someone else, causing him to stagger a little.

"Sorry about that."

"No worries, man. You okay?"

And then he found himself right before a tall figure in a cowboy hat and a sand-colored coat - a figure that he associated with the easy-going sniper Dodge from his book, and one of the people who had reacted so strongly from just a first glimpse. The figure recognized him now, and the warm expression deadened a little.

"Uncle Irv?" a young voice called carefully, and a small head of spiky blond peeked out from behind a long leg. "Who's that?"

"Nobody we know," the figure answered gently, turning the little one away. "Let's go, Zell - that bakery will be closing soon..."

And left stranded at the front of the bookshop, he felt he was being mocked for something he could not understand. As the pair walked away, he saw yet others - almost all of the others - who had looked his way in a plea for understanding:

A teenager with a beanie on his head, backed by a dark-skinned boy and a gray-haired girl, all three looking so very morose and disgusted with their own confusion. A small brunette in a yellow sundress, still hugging her purchased novel as though in denial. A pair of high school students - one with long black hair and the other with a blond bun - that sat together, sharing troubled glances as their eyes darted from the books they held to one another, over and over again.

Before, they had only disturbed him with emotions he could not place. Now, his stomach lurched as he so momentarily placed names on each and every one of them. Not just random names, but true names - names he knew they would answer to, should he call. As though he truly knew them...

Suddenly, a loud ringing stabbed into the tense silence like a fork into an overcooked turkey - so awkward, it shattered the somber atmosphere in a manner that was almost obscene. Embarrassed, he ducked back into the shop and pulled the mobile from his pocket at once.

"Hello? ... Raine!" Relief washed over him at once as he spoke to his young wife. "...yes, I'm still at the signing... now, honey, I told you - I won't be done until evening... Don't worry, I'll pick up Elle from her playgroup before I get back; I promised you two a nice restaurant dinner, didn't I? ...what _about_ your mom? Didn't she say 'no' on her own...?"

And as he continued to talk on the phone, he did not notice that he was being watched. The scarred man that remained unnoticed watched him still - knowing that those vague recollections were fading away, never to surface again, never to be longed for...as though they had never existed.

The man turned away again, ignoring left and right those who had come as well in a wild goose chase for answers that had been lost.

As he turned a corner and disappeared from sight, Squall Leonhart - alone - departed from the people he had once known, and left them to their second chance at a better life.


End file.
